


Personal Collection

by AllDressedUpAndNaked



Category: Original Work
Genre: All are original works, Song Lyrics, These are personal poems, or simple rants or thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 15:00:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllDressedUpAndNaked/pseuds/AllDressedUpAndNaked
Summary: Just stuff I have jotted down, usually during distressing times. If you read them, you may get a little insight into what goes on in my head. Or become even more confused about who/what I am. But I don't really care, either way. Because it's not about you. It's about me. It's always about me...……...but not always.





	1. Me, Mostly

**_Me, Mostly_ **

 

_ Curled up with my thoughts, good and bad. _

_ Mostly bad. Mostly dark. Mostly morbid. _

_ Mostly inhuman. _

_ All are unspeakable to my reality. _

 

_ All alone, curled up under a heavy fog. _

_ Can’t remember how I got here. _

_ But where is here… it is nowhere. _

_ It is somewhere I want to be. _

 

_ I want to hurt… to bleed. Shiver. Cry.  _

_ No, not cry, but mourn. _

_ But why… I have not lost something dear. _

_ I’ve done nothing wrong… in my mind, anyway. _

 

_ I like to cause the pain. To fight. To argue. To be right. _

_ Because I am right! Only I matter. _

_ Nothing else matters. _

_ Just myself. And my fog. _

 

_ I don’t want to be mourned, or pitied. _

_ Pity is for the week. _

_ Mourning is for the dead. _

_ I suppose the latter applies to me, though… depending on who you are. _

 

_ That me died a long time ago.  _

_ The pure one. The judgmental one. The sheltered one. _

_ The responsible one. The content one. The happy one. _

_ Or maybe she’s not dead… just broken.  _

 

_ Either way, I don’t want her back. I want this me. _

_ This me is stronger. This me has little emotions. This me doesn’t cry anymore. _

_ This me has more fun. This me is more creative. This me has dark secrets. _

_ This me wants to fuck up the world… and dance on its ashes. _

 

_ But it’s been too long. I’m too tired. Nothing will ever change.  _

_ So this me mostly stays hidden. Mostly locked up. Mostly in the fog.  _

_ Curled up in thoughts, good and bad. Mostly bad. _

_ And stays locked away from reality. At least this reality. _

 

_ I’ll pray for a new one. _

 


	2. Can't See Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song lyrics

_**Can’t See Anymore** _

 

Everything is haywire, so dire, on fire

I can’t figure myself out, full of doubt, dark without

Support is gone, moved on, can’t go beyond

Can’t run away, have to stay, for now: delay.

 

Behind who I am. Beyond what I was.

Are they payin’ attention? Can’t tell because

I can’t see anymore.

Can’t feel, can’t heal.

I can’t see anymore.

Not aware, don’t care.

Behind who I am. Beyond what I was.

Are they payin’ attention? All hell’s abuzz.

 

Demons dark, fall apart, hit the mark

Pushing their way in, feel my sin, deep within

To and fro, we go below, my deeds to show

I won’t run away, choose to stay, no more delay.

 

Beyond who I am. Behind what I was.

Still not payin’ attention? Too bad because

I can’t see anymore.

Can’t feel, can’t heal.

I can’t see anymore.

Unaware, don’t care.

Beyond who I am. Behind what I was.

They don’t pay attention. My hell’s abuzz.

 

The only thing I fear, is if they ever found out

Who I really am, what this girl’s really about.

Would they reject me outright, put an end to what I love.

If that’s the case, then I’ll make haste, to live every moment how I want it to be…

But in secret.

 

Beyond who I am. Behind what I was.

Don’t want the attention, so I’ll have to pause.

I can’t see anymore.

Can’t feel, can’t heal.

I can’t see anymore.

Unaware, don’t care.

Beyond who I am. Behind what I was.

Don’t want the attention. My hell’s abuzz.

 


	3. Time To Kill- A Mother's Confession

**_Time To Kill- A Mother’s Confession_ **

 

A waking cry. It is not harsh, yet. You can hear the confusion of the source. It has just woken up, most likely from the hunger within. It does seem to be its only driving force at night, hunger. Along with warmth. Sleep. Entertainment. All the selfish needs, it cries for one of them. Always. With no concern for the when or where.

The woman wakes for the fourth time tonight. Her bed, however, is not where she finds herself. It’s the rocking chair. Putting the small lump of not-yet-fully-developed human into its own bed doesn’t work. It only sleeps in her arms. The sound of its cry triggers involuntary response. There is a tingling feeling in her chest that grows as the milk rushes in. At its climax, she feels as though she might burst. It is a highly aggressive feeling. She needs release. The greedy infant is the only thing that can help this anxiety rush and the hyperventilation that accompanies it. 

It latches on, the stinging pain curls her toes, then is gone after a few seconds. The pain doesn’t bother her, though. It actually is welcomed. It’s like a junkie getting their fix. She knows that after the pain comes the feel good moment. Chemical release. Oxytocin, prolactin. It’s habit forming. It keeps her from completely losing her mind. Just enough of a high to keep her from ditching the responsibility of being this thing’s life support, altogether.

She lets her head fall back against the chair again. Before long, she is waking with a start, realizing the thing has, itself, fallen asleep at her breast. Sweet milky fluid  oozes down the corner of its mouth. Drips onto her own skin. Great, now she’s going to be sticky. Oh well. An excuse to have a shower. The only time she ever gets to herself. If only for five minutes.

It needs to wake up to feed from the other side. The other breast is still painfully full; beginning to dampen her nursing bra. She throws it over her shoulder, patting its back gently. No response. Just limp slumber. Her hand comes down with a bit more firmness. Thud, thud. Still nothing. She is too tired to care, and too tired to think that if she would just put it to bed, it would be awake in no time and she could finish the job. 

There are consequences for not finishing. The infant will sleep, yes, but only for a short time. It will soon wake with cries of pain. Air bubbles from its incessant sucking and swallowing will build up. It will most likely end up spewing forth most of its meal onto her shoulder. Sour milk. It’s not a pleasant perfume. She wears it most days, though. In her hair. On her clothing. It’s a pretty common scent for her. But, she is way too tired to care about any such indignity.

The want for sleep is overpowering her senses. She leaves it over her shoulder. Heavy eyes shut. Temporary relief is soon interrupted, however, for the fifth time. There they are, the painful gassy cries. It releases some of the offending gas. Along with much of the other contents of its underdeveloped gut. Then the cycle starts again. The neglected breast gets its much needed attention. Again, they fall asleep together. And stay asleep until light begins to seep through the mini blinds of the room. Another day dawns.

Someone, she’s too mentally fatigued to remember who, once told her it would all be worth it. That she would look back and remember this as a special time in her life. Every second of sleep deprivation and every moment of lost dignity, she would ultimately be grateful for. She wanted to hunt this person down and murder them. Slowly. But after 13 years, and four more infants to serve as life support for, she was too tired to care.

Today, the lasting effects of her experiences can be seen in her. She tried to cover it up for a while. Tried to ignore it. Tried to avoid it. Tried to put it off as long as she could. But then, one day, it came out. All the pain. All the anger. All the resentment. The emotional trauma. It flooded out. She was never the same after that. Her world, and, by default, everyone else’s around her, changed forever. She ended up causing a lot of pain, anger, resentment, and emotional trauma to those around her. But she shows no empathy for them.

Her final thought, the moral to her story- she didn’t have one. No words of wisdom. No cliché about life choices. In the end, it’s not that she was too tired to care about what has happened. It’s that she no longer knows  _ how _ .

And then she realizes, the person who told her it would all be worth it? She  _ has _ hunted them down. She  _ is _ slowly killing them. 

She laughs to herself. The world is oblivious.

 


	4. Conclusion of Self-Assessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A response to someone...

**Conclusion of Self-Assessment**

 

I know the feeling.

I hate it, too. But probably for a different reason.

Imperfection abounds, but then, what would perfection look like?

It is unattainable. Except in virtual realities. Real reality...there is no perfection.

Only someone else’s definition of perfection. Which, sadly, becomes our definition.

 

But each mark, each scar, even the smile I hate...they all tell a story.

A story of stubbornness- Refusal to get the metal. Because they’re fine the way they are. Really, it was because of fear. Fear of pain. Fear of responsibility.

A story of accidents- A slip of the leash. The Retriever too strong and too eager to get to what intrigued her. The blood tasted good, though.

A story of unknowns- Jagged pale lines too large to ignore, but thankfully inconspicuous to others. Somebody should remember what happened. Nobody does. Not even I. I suppose some traumas are best kept hidden. Hmm...it just occurred to me that whatever happened to cause this could have contributed to a problem I suffer from now. Funny how it takes writing something down in order to realize what should have been glaringly obvious.

 

We think others are beautiful, but rarely do we think this of ourselves.

Thankfully, I don’t have to look at myself as much as I have to look at other people.

Sucks for them, but I have grown to not really care.

Nobody else really cares, either.

Ultimately, it doesn’t make any difference. I am no celebrity.

 

If you try to change for yourself, make sure that it is certain in your eyes.

Never change for anyone. People are fickle.

You have to live with yourself. They don’t. They will always come and go.

They will think beauty is such one day, and not the next.

There are too many other things to do than dwelling on that for which the definition is always changing, never to reach conclusion.

 

Your time, your energy, just your presence…

To those who love you just the way you are, they are enough.

And they will always think you beautiful, no matter what.

 

I have to remind myself of this. Self-assessment can be so damaging.

 


	5. She's Not Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who has ever lost a sibling...

** She's Not Me **

 

Why do I have to see him...

He's everywhere,

He's nowhere.

I miss him.

 

He follows me around, in the shop windows, the glass of the cars that pass.

He is always following me into the bathroom.

Watches me as I wash my hands or brush my hair.

 

Sometimes it comforts me to know he's there, but often it is just disturbing.

Why does he have to stare?

 

I'm trying to find myself, I can't remember what I look like.

Because he's always there, blocking my reflection.

I suppose I look like him, he is my brother, after all.

But it would be nice to see myself again.  

 

I have forgotten what I look like, who I am.

What color my eyes are.

The shape of my face.

I have to rely on other people's descriptions of me, because it's been too long since I've seen myself...

 

I guess that is for the better, though.

I no longer know who I am.

But I'm sure I'm not worth knowing, anyway.

 

I wish he would not stare at me.

It makes me nervous, or maybe just sad.

I know- it's that I'm not worth staring at. He's trying to look at himself.

Does he see himself?

I hope so.

Because I am him.

He is me.

 

Maybe he will end himself again.

I could never do it for him.

He is braver than I.

 

I'm everywhere.

I'm nowhere.

I miss me.


End file.
